Tom Simard

Poetry, Music, and Prose

Archive for the tag “sea”

The Chinese Restaurant

Szechuan Garden Chinese Restaurant

Red lanterns hung
giving light
to a dim atmosphere
bordering on the
clandestine
as if boats
were sneaking out to sea
with contraband.

The music
echoing out
did not soothe
as much as
make one
question
what might
come next.

The menu
with its characters
of sheer beauty
from which
you ordered
as the
candle flickered away
like fireflies gone lost,
exchanging
the happenings of a day
that would remain with you
as long as
the Great Wall
traversed space
from which its citadels
had stood as a reminder
of the threats that come
to everyone
in unfamiliar territory.

The ink wash paintings
with the calligraphy
you could not
decipher
but imagined
to be
a reflection
of the placid
waters.

Poem by Tom Simard
Sketch by John Spiers

To find out more about John’s other creative work, please visit 1 Graphic 50 Words.

Advertisements

Granby Street

Granby Street

I walk down Granby Street
all these years later.

I was taken
to see a world
I’d never known
of rolling clouds
over mountain peaks,
of crashing waves and
insufferable heat.

I never knew
if I’d return
or be buried
at sea.

 

All along the
dock
we
victoriously
disembarked,
moving about
in riotous dance,
duffel bags
slung easily
over shoulders.

I bought the
best suit
I could afford
and a pair of shoes
to impress
a  lady.

Poem by Tom Simard
Sketches by John Spiers

To find out more about John’s other creative work, please visit 1 Graphic 50 Words.

Book 23

“And death shall come to me from the sea,
As gentle as this touch, and take me off
When I am worn out in sleek old age,
With my people prosperous around me.
23.287-291

Book 14

“The sea grew dark beneath it, and Zeus thundered
And struck the ship with a lightning bolt.
She shivered from stem to stern and was filled
With sulfurous smoke. The men went overboard,
Bobbing in the waves like sea crows
Around the black ship, their day of return
Snuffed out by the god.”
14.329-335

Book 13

“At the harbor’s head a slender-leaved olive
Stands near a cave glimmering through the mist
And sacred to the nymphs called Naiades.
Inside are bowls and jars of stone
Where bees store honey, and long stone looms
Where the nymphs weave shrouds as dark as the sea.”
13.105-110

Book 10

“The winds rushed out
And bore them far out to sea, weeping
As their native land faded on the horizon.”
10.53-55

Book 4

“When the sun is at high noon, the unerring
Old Man of the Sea comes from the salt water,
Hidden in dark ripples the West Wind stirs up,
And then lies down to sleep in the scalloped caves.
All around him seals, the brine-spirit’s brood,
Sleep in a herd. They come out of the grey water.
With breath as fetid as the depths of the sea.”
4.426-432

Book 2

“Hear me, god of yesterday. You came to our house
And commanded me to sail the misty sea
In search of news of my long-absent father.”
2.285-287

Our Mid-Month’s Poet: Matthew Arnold

Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the A gaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Post Navigation

%d bloggers like this: